


Emrys Enchanted

by ladililn



Category: Ella Enchanted - All Media Types, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon Era, M/M, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-07 14:37:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10362645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: Merlin's powers come with a price: he must always be obedient. When someone gives him an order, he has no choice but to comply.Just his luck, then, to end up servant to the most imperious prince who's ever lived.(AKA theElla EnchantedAU you never knew you needed.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When the idea for an _Ella Enchanted_ AU first came to me, I was absolutely 100% certain somebody in the _Merlin_ fandom must have already written one. I was so disappointed not to find one that I decided to write it myself. It's a thankless job, but somebody's got to do it, right?
> 
> Also, to borrow somebody's disclaimer that I read a while back and absolutely loved, Merlin takes place in the Renaissance Faire period, which is not analogous to any era of actual history. So in this universe, _Much Ado About Nothing_ as written by Shakespeare already exists and is performed regularly. Just go with it.
> 
> Rating subject to change with future chapters. Comments and kudos are, of course, much appreciated. ♥

A week after Merlin’s tenth birthday, a troupe of players came to Ealdor.

That wasn’t their intention, of course. But there was a sickness in the much larger town a day’s ride west, so here they were. They even performed the full three nights, although there were barely enough people in Ealdor to make up a single audience. As the woman playing Ursula noted, bedding down on the floor of Hunith’s hut, people in small villages were usually happy to watch the same play over and over and over again. Merlin understood that. The play was the most exciting thing to happen in Ealdor since Old Man Simmons’ cow got loose and made off with the midwife’s underthings.

Merlin saw the play all three nights. He loved everything about it. He loved Dogberry’s foolishness, the unnecessary complexity of Don John’s schemes, the masquerade where all the characters got to slip on masks and say what they really meant.

But most of all, he loved Beatrice and Benedick. He loved that they began sparring almost immediately, matching each other insult for insult, quip for quip. He loved that everyone else in the play could tell they’d be perfect for each other, if they’d just get over themselves already. And he loved—even if he didn’t really understand, not completely, anyway—Benedick’s heartfelt confession: “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?”

But there was another thing in the play he didn’t really understand, from that same scene, and it occupied his thoughts the morning after the third performance, once the woman-whose-name-was-not-actually-Ursula left with the rest of her troupe.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” his mother asked, glancing up from her work to smile at him. “Are you sad they’re gone?”

“No,” Merlin said. “I mean, yes, but that’s not—Mum, why did Benedick agree to duel Claudio?”

“Hmm?” Hunith was preparing a stew, hard, all-day-long work, especially as some of it had to feed the neighbors too, what with Mary having just had her baby. “What do you mean?”

“Why’d he say he’d do it? He didn’t want to.”

“Well, Beatrice wanted him to, didn’t she? She asked him to.”

“But he said no.” Merlin said this with not a little awe, a little reverence. _He said no._ “He said he wouldn’t do it, and then he changed his mind, even though he still didn’t want to.”

“Oh.” Hunith was looking at him again, paused from her stirring and wearing _that_ look, the one where she smiled but her eyes were sad. “Oh, Merlin. Well. Do you remember what he said just before that?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied promptly. He’d always had a good memory; after three viewings, he practically had the play memorized—at least the important scenes. “He said ‘Come, bid me do anything for thee.’ I didn’t really get that part either. I just—I don’t—why would he say that?”

“Well,” Hunith said, stirring more slowly, “I suppose he wanted to prove his love for Beatrice. To prove he’d do anything she asked of him. Which is why he says he’ll challenge Claudio, even though he doesn’t want to. Because _she_ wants him to, and when you love someone, you choose to put their wishes before your own.”

“That’s love?”

“That’s part of it.”

Merlin considered it. He frowned. “It doesn’t sound like love to me. It sounds like a curse. Like my curse.”

Hunith smiled the saddest smile Merlin had ever seen. “It’s not a curse, love. It’s a choice.”

 

Merlin didn’t know much about choice. He knew a lot about curses, though.

To be fair, he also knew a lot about blessings. That’s how his mum referred to his magic—“a blessing and a curse.” Merlin thought the magic part was _all_ blessing, though. The curse was the other part. The obedience.

Hunith didn’t give him orders, not if she could help it. She said Merlin’s obedience was evident from practically the moment he was born, just like his magic.

“What other baby stops crying the instant he’s told to?” She stroked his hair away from his forehead. “And what other baby could float right out of his cradle?”

Most of the villagers knew nothing of Merlin’s curse, but that didn’t stop them from being unwitting perpetrators of his misery. People issued orders every day, in a million different ways, without even realizing it. _Wait up_ and _see here_ and _get lost_. _Relax already_ and _use your imagination_ and even _have a pleasant evening_. For everyone else, brushing off these kinds of commands was no more difficult than refusing a polite request. For Merlin, that slight difference in wording— _try some_ instead of _do you want a bite?_ —could mean the difference between life and death, when it was the baker’s wife trying to offer him a slice of strawberry pie.

His mum and Will did their best to shield him from the mandates of an unknowing—or uncaring—world. And he had his magic. It was no small price to pay, his obedience, even for so magnificent a gift, but given the choice… Given the choice, Merlin wouldn’t willingly give up his magic, not for all the free will in the world.

 

And then Karl showed up.

Newcomers to Ealdor were rare. Karl came from the same town that had been under quarantine all those years before—a sickness from which he seemed to have emerged tragically unscathed—to marry the butcher’s daughter.

He was a tall brute of a man. Merlin disliked him immediately, though not in any special way. He disliked plenty of people in Ealdor. He’d never much cared for the butcher’s daughter, either, though Will had once been sweet on her. But Will had been sweet on every local girl within a decade of his own age at some point or another, so that was hardly a special distinction.

Anyway, Karl didn’t have much effect on Merlin’s life one way or another, until one cold day in March.

“Cold one, innit?” Karl said, wrapping up the pork chop that was part of Hunith’s monthly order. Karl liked to talk as he worked, though he never had anything interesting to say. Merlin suspected he just liked the sound of his own voice.

Merlin shrugged in response. Karl handed him the pork chop.

“Runnin’ any more errands after this?” Karl asked.

“The baker,” Merlin said, putting the package in his basket.

“That old bastard,” Karl said, which Merlin thought was rather the pot calling the snow black. Karl grinned a lopsided grin. “When you see him, give him a good kick in the shin for me.”

Merlin froze. He could feel the command take root in his body, making itself at home.

“I—” he said, and stopped. He couldn’t think of a way to make Karl take it back that would work, that wouldn’t make everything worse by revealing his secret.

It got worse anyway.

Merlin stepped outside, and the baker was right there, on his way to Matilda’s house for her daily delivery. Merlin liked the baker. Ever since he and his wife had learned of Merlin’s strawberry allergy—even though they claimed never to have heard of such a wild notion—they’d taken care to keep the blueberry scones on another tray, for those days when Merlin had the money to get himself a treat.

“Hiya, Merlin!” the baker called, lifting a hand in greeting.

Merlin didn’t have a choice. He could feel the command like a fishhook behind his navel, pulling him towards the baker the moment he’d caught sight of him. He couldn’t control his own movement.

He ran up and kicked the baker in the shin, hard.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said instantly, as the baker hopped on one foot, howling in pain. Merlin knelt to pick up the bread that had fallen on the ground; one loaf had rolled out of the cloth and was now covered in a thin layer of dirt. Merlin brushed it off the best he could. “I’m really sorry,” he said again. He couldn’t think of a way to explain.

The baker took the bread Merlin handed him, his expression wavering between anger and surprise and hurt. He gruffly waved off Merlin’s third and fourth apologies and shuffled off toward Matilda’s hut, limping slightly.

Merlin saw Karl leaning against the doorway of the butcher’s shop. He, too, looked surprised, but when Merlin met his eyes, he started to grin.

 

The next night, Karl waylaid Merlin on his way home.

“Got time to grab a pint?” he called.

“Sorry, no. I’ve got to get this home before it melts.” Merlin held up his bucket, filled with clean river ice, as evidence. It was Hunith’s birthday, and he wanted to try making her favorite custard tart, which required careful temperature regulation of all the ingredients.

“Come in and have one drink,” Karl said.

Merlin went.

Karl ordered Merlin another pint after he’d finished his first. Merlin drank them as quickly as he could, while Karl talked and talked and talked.

Eventually Karl got up to use the privy. Merlin tensed in anticipation, seeing his chance to escape.

“Keep an eye on my drink,” Karl said jovially, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.

One minute later, Merlin nearly ran right into Karl while trying to sneak out the door. It had been difficult to see where he was going, with his gaze focused intently on the tankard in his hand.

Karl put the pieces together quickly after that. By the end of the night, he’d ordered Merlin to clap three times, walk like a chicken, and spit into Old Man Simmons’ ale. Helpless, Merlin had obeyed.

“Merlin, my friend,” Karl slurred, pitching all his considerable weight around Merlin’s shoulders, “Merlin, my friend, I can tell we’re going to be good friends. My friend Merlin. Now run along home.”

Merlin started a drunken, stumbling run. He hadn’t taken two steps before pitching forward onto the ground, his bucket of clear mountain water spilling into the dirt.

 

Merlin lay awake that night, and many nights after, fantasizing about ways to get his revenge.

He could turn Karl into a frog. He could take away all Karl’s hair. He could enchant the slaughtered pigs to bite Karl every time he came near. He could make Karl’s teeth green. He could turn Karl’s cock into an actual rooster. He could send a sharpened branch flying into Karl’s heart. He could tie Karl’s bootlaces together.

Merlin couldn’t really do any of these things, not without risking everything. Okay, he could get away with magically tripping Karl, sometimes, and occasionally making him fall asleep face-first in his plate of mashed potatoes, and once he enchanted the most obnoxious tune sung by the village children to play ceaselessly in Karl’s head. But this last one backfired when Karl decided he was too distracted to do his chores for the day, and made Merlin do them all, instead.

It could have been worse, Merlin supposed. Karl was singularly lacking in imagination, and mostly used his knowledge of Merlin’s curse to make him do menial labor, and, occasionally, publically embarrass him. He didn’t seem at all curious about _why_ Merlin did everything he was told, which meant he never even began to suspect about Merlin’s magic.

And Merlin got good at finding loopholes and technicalities in Karl’s commands. When Karl told him to fetch water from the well, Merlin brought back barely enough to fill a thimble. When Karl ordered Merlin to remove Karl’s boots and give him a foot rub, Merlin dropped the boots into a manure-filled wagon. And when Karl ordered Merlin to give him the first, ripe, juicy tomato of summer, Merlin threw it full in his face.

He paid for these things later, of course. But it was worth it to not feel like a complete puppet, a helpless slave.

“This can’t go on,” Hunith said one night, tears in her eyes.

“Mum, it’s okay,” Merlin said wearily. His hands were nearly black with dirt and his body ached all over; he knew he’d be covered with bruises come morning. He pressed wet rags to his bloody knees.

Karl’s donkey had foundered, and Karl had thought it a hilarious, perfect solution to use Merlin in her place. He’d even strapped Merlin into the harness and had him pull the wagon. (Merlin had used magic to help pull the weight—he didn’t want Karl to get any ideas about breaking out the whip.)

“It’s not okay, Merlin. And what if it gets worse?”

“He can’t hurt me,” Merlin said. Hunith gave him a look, disbelieving and sad, and he corrected, “I mean, he can’t _really_ hurt me. I have magic, remember? If he put me in serious danger, I’d be able to stop him.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.

“I want more for you, sweetheart. And I’m not just talking about Karl. I mean—your gifts. Your future. You have so much potential.”

Merlin said nothing. He knew she was right. He didn’t think about the future—his future—often, because when he did all he saw was Ealdor, stretching on forever, and that _couldn’t_ be it, his entire life, he couldn’t bear it.

“I have a friend,” Hunith said at last, hesitant. “Gaius. He lives in Camelot…”

“Camelot?” Merlin repeated, incredulous. “You want to send me into Uther’s kingdom? Where magic is punishable by _death_?”

Hunith sighed. “King Uther didn’t invent anti-magic sentiment, you know. Prejudice had been growing for years—generations—and he merely…accelerated it. Most of the other kingdoms have adopted similar laws. Cenred has proven happy to extradite sorcerers for execution. The only reason he hasn’t outlawed magic, I imagine, is because he still thinks he can use it for his own gain.”

“What are you saying?” Merlin had no idea his mother was so up on current affairs, ones of a higher nature than how many chicks Mary’s hen had just hatched.

“I’m saying, love, that you’re in as much danger here as anywhere. If someone found out about you, about your power, about your curse—they’d use you. I can’t promise you’d be safe in Camelot. But maybe Gaius could help.”

Merlin shivered. He was a thousand times more afraid of his curse being found out than his power. It was a choice, he realized, between the possibility of dying, and the possibility of being used to kill.

He didn’t much fancy either option. But at least it was a choice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and especially comments so far! ♥

Merlin arrived in Camelot just in time to witness an execution.

He wondered, watching a guard shove the man forward, why the man—the _sorcerer_ —didn’t use magic to escape. But then, maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d been ordered not to. Merlin knew that if _he_ were caught, he might very well go gentle as a lamb toward his own slaughter. With the right combination of words, they could even get Merlin to do himself in, and save everybody else the trouble.

Merlin had always assumed that all magic-users were compelled to be obedient. He had thought it strange that this rather significant limitation never came up in the legends and folktales people told about sorcerers—but then, a lot of magic-related things were seldom or never talked about.

It wasn’t until one day when Hunith was telling a story about the Great Purge—a rare and reluctant concession to Merlin’s endless questions on the topic—that Merlin noticed what seemed to be an impossibility.

“…And the king had ordered that all books of witchcraft and sorcery be burned. But my friend hid his collection—”

“How?” Merlin interrupted.

“I think he had some sort of secret compartment.”

“No, I mean, how did he resist the order? Was it—did King Uther word it as a request by mistake?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think my friend shared your curse, love.”

Merlin frowned.

“But—he could do magic, you said.”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“He—he could do magic, but he didn’t have to do what everyone said?” Merlin’s mind boggled. The very idea! “But what about ‘a blessing and a curse’? It doesn’t seem fair!”

Hunith had sighed. “Life isn’t fair, Merlin. We’ve been over this.”

“I’m just saying! It seems dangerous, actually. Somebody who can do magic, but who doesn’t have the limitation… What’s to stop them from doing whatever they want to anybody?”

“Well,” Hunith said, giving him a strange look, “I suppose that’s the sort of thing the king was thinking. And why he banned magic in the first place.”

That had shut Merlin up, at least. He did still think he had a point, and a good one, but he couldn’t deny that the emotional thrust of his argument was rooted in a feeling of injustice. It was immature, he knew. Selfish, definitely. But it didn’t seem _fair_ that some people were free to do whatever they liked _and_ could do magic as well. Sometimes it felt like the world had it out for Merlin in particular.

At least now that he was in Camelot, he’d be able to get some answers. He had a letter his mum had written to Gaius—who, Merlin realized now, was probably the friend she’d been talking about in that story.

Hope of getting answers: that was what he had to hold onto. It was the only thought that could compete with the _thud_ of the executioner’s axe still echoing in his mind.

 

Gaius didn’t seem to have many answers. What he did have were a lot of questions.

Merlin had spent his whole life feeling like a freak for having magic; horrific though it was, even witnessing the execution of a sorcerer had been in some morbid way a validation. There were other people out there, other people _like him_.

Except now it turned out that even for a sorcerer, Merlin was a freak.

According to Gaius, Merlin shouldn’t have been able to do any magic without having been trained. And he certainly shouldn’t have to comply with every order he was given.

“I’m not a monster, am I?” Merlin asked.

“Don’t ever think that,” Gaius said.

Merlin only wished it were that easy.

(The curse wouldn’t let him think those exact words in that exact order again, but the idea behind them was still there, still terrifying.)

Gaius bandied orders about a lot more frequently than Hunith had, though they tended to be things like _eat your breakfast_ and _take this medicine to Sir Olwin_. Whenever he thoughtlessly gave a command that he didn’t really mean, Merlin would ask, “Is that an order?”, and Gaius would say no, and then Merlin could go about his day without having to literally _hop to it_.

 

And then there was Arthur.

Every word, every phrase, every single sentence that came out of Arthur’s mouth had the ring of a command. Perhaps that was to be expected, for someone raised from birth to be the future ruler of an entire kingdom. Even his _questions_ sounded like they were meant to be obeyed. When Arthur strode towards him, asking if Merlin knew how to walk on his knees, the knees in question nearly buckled automatically. Which—as Merlin had plenty of time to reflect wryly upon in the stocks—would doubtless have made _that_ interaction end up rather differently.

But Merlin knew the difference between commands and not-commands, knew it physically, instinctively, the same way he’d always known how to feel the pulse of magic in the air and shape it to his will. He also knew—less elementally, more because of what Hunith called his “contrary nature”—how to identify technicalities. No matter how much authoritative weight Arthur threw behind his words, Merlin was _technically_ free to disobey anything worded like a request or suggestion. ( _Bodily_ free, that was; the guards locking him in the dungeon cared little whether Merlin was cursed or not.)

Which was why Merlin had to _come on_ when Arthur told him to and _stop_ when Arthur so commanded it. And it was why he could ask Arthur how long he’d been training to be a prat, _my lord_?

There was a moment—an instant, really—when it looked like the guards were taking him to the dungeons again, and doubtless Merlin would not get off so easily for his second (practically identical) offense, when he wished he were back in Ealdor, heeding Karl and hating him in equal measure.

But then Arthur ordered him released.

Merlin couldn’t imagine Karl ever issuing such an order, in this language or any other.

“There’s something about you, Merlin,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

And even though Merlin was still breathing hard, and furious, and so full of coiled power he felt he might burst at any moment—he thought, _likewise_.

 

The very last thing Merlin expected to discover in Camelot was a form of speech nearly as awful as imperatives. But that was before he met the Great Dragon, and realized it was technically possible to speak entirely in riddles and grandiose-but-completely-vague pronouncements.

The worst thing the dragon said, though, managed to be a strange mixture of both: imperative and riddle.

“None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin, and none of us can escape it.”

 _Fuck destiny_ , Merlin thought, sudden and vicious.

The Great Dragon—in what Merlin immediately suspected would be only the first entry in an increasingly obnoxious pattern—flew away before allowing Merlin to make his case re: _fuck destiny_ , though at least after Merlin got to make his point re: Arthur being an idiot. Merlin doubted the Great Dragon would’ve listened anyway; listening, like clear communication, didn’t seem to be his strong suit.

As far as Merlin could tell, _destiny_ just meant that the universe itself thought it could order him around however it liked. He hardly needed to be told that there was no chance of escape; he’d figured that out himself a long time ago. But that didn’t mean he had to go quietly. It didn’t mean he couldn’t fight tooth and nail every step of the way, even knowing that the end was inevitable, didn’t mean he couldn’t find every loophole and technicality he could sink his teeth into, didn’t mean he couldn’t grab destiny by the throat and take it down with him.

He’d wanted a purpose, a reason that might explain why he’d been born as he had, with power coursing through his veins and obedience twisting at his muscles. He hadn’t wanted this. It was one thing to be a servant; it was quite another to be a slave.

 

“So,” Arthur said, standing with his arms crossed in his ridiculously lavish chambers, “you’re to be my new manservant.”

“Er,” Merlin said, because Arthur was looking at him like he expected Merlin to say something. “…Yes?”

“Yes, _sire_.”

“Just Merlin is fine.”

Arthur huffed an incredulous laugh, just as he’d done earlier. He walked a circle around Merlin, looking him over as one might observe a dying mule.

“As I said, a brave idiot,” Arthur said. He frowned. “Though perhaps the two are related. Maybe you’re brave _because_ you’re an idiot.”

“Hey,” Merlin said, because no matter how much Gaius might despair of him, there was only so much he could reasonably take. “I saved your life, you know. You could show me some respect.”

Arthur stared at him. And then he burst into laughter.

“Oh, maybe this won’t be so bad,” he said, striding over to a table. “A manservant _and_ a jester in the same person. You could prove useful after all. Can you read?”

“Of course!” Merlin said, indignant, then immediately winced at the look Arthur leveled him. “I mean, yes. Sire.”

“Good, that will make things much easier. Here.” Arthur thrust a heavy book into Merlin’s arms. “Tournament etiquette. You need to be an expert by the day after tomorrow. I want to start training bright and early, so you are to bring me my breakfast at dawn. We will discuss the extent of your duties then. Understood?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You are dismissed.”

Merlin was just about to safety when Arthur called out, “One more thing.”

Merlin steeled himself before turning around. There was no logical reason, he reminded himself, for Prince Arthur to command his new manservant to take a flying leap out the window. Although judging by the weight of the book he had to read, obeying such an order might feel a relief.

“I want to thank you for saving my life,” Arthur said. Merlin blinked. Only the profoundly uncomfortable look on the prince’s face convinced Merlin he had heard right. “I am grateful.”

“You’re, um, welcome,” Merlin said, trying not to make it sound like a question.

Arthur cleared his throat, awkwardly shoving the chair in front of him closer to the table, then pulling it back out, as though he’d forgotten he needed to be sitting in it first.

“Right,” he said gruffly, waving a hand in Merlin’s direction. Go. Get lost.”

Merlin sighed as he pulled the door closed behind him. _Look on the bright side_ , he imagined his mother chiding him, _at least it’s a chance to explore the castle._


	3. Chapter 3

Merlin, Arthur had decided, was the most disobedient person the world had ever seen.

Merlin didn’t know whether to find this hilarious or tragic or wonderful, so he settled on all three. The problem with Arthur—well, one of many—was that he was a prince, and a prat besides, so he hardly noticed the thousands of times Merlin did exactly as he was told. (It wasn’t long before Merlin and Gaius had developed a specific hand signal to mean _Arthur told me to shut up and now I can’t talk_. And it wasn’t long after _that_ that Gaius learned to word his remedial orders carefully, lest he once again distractedly tell Merlin to _speak_. Merlin had only gotten five minutes into his continuous prattle before Arthur told him _for God’s sake, Merlin, shut up!_ and the whole thing started all over again.)

The point was, Arthur was so used to the complete compliance of those around him that the only way to capture his attention at all was to defy him. Not that Merlin was _trying_ to capture Arthur’s attention. He was already putting up with more commands than ever, at a frankly exhausting rate. So he hardly thought he should be blamed for taking the rare opportunity to relax wherever he found one. After all, when Arthur said _My chambers are a complete mess. My clothes need washing. My armor needs repairing. My boots need cleaning. My dogs need exercising. My fireplace needs sweeping. My bed needs changing. And someone needs to muck out my stables_ , he never specifically said it was _Merlin_ who had to do all those things.

Of course, it was implied. But the curse didn’t care about _implications_.

And yes, Merlin knew he’d have to do all those things anyway, eventually, unless he wanted to be sacked. Again. But at least Arthur’s unwittingly freeing use of passive voice provided Merlin with the rare chance to procrastinate on his manservant/chambermaid/kennelmaster/launderer/stableboy duties. Which wasn’t to even mention his duties as royal punching bag, or, as Arthur had proclaimed that first night, court jester.

So Merlin was working harder than he ever had in his life, more a slave to his curse than ever. But—strangely, illogically, unfathomably—he didn’t hate it. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because, unlike with the whole Karl situation, this new role was…an actual role. Manservant. He was _supposed_ to serve Prince Arthur; it was his _job_. For which he got pay and respect. (Well, the respect was so far only theoretical. He did get some from the other servants, at least, and that in itself was a revelation: other people, like him, doing as they were told. Even if they didn’t _have_ to, they still _had_ to. In their own way.)

Or maybe it was just that Arthur was, at the least, a good deal more interesting than Karl had been. Smarter, definitely. And significantly more attractive—not that that mattered, or made any difference where Merlin was concerned, of course. It was just something he had noticed. Casually, and with no particular interest beyond the purely aesthetic. That was all.

Whatever the reason, Merlin couldn’t deny that when Arthur _had_ sacked him, over the whole awful business with the snakes Valiant had enchanted to kill on his command, he’d felt…disappointed. It _should_ have been exactly what he wanted: a chance to stay in Camelot as Gaius’ assistant, nothing more, free from the risk and degradation that came with being Arthur’s manservant. Merlin still wasn’t on board with the whole concept of his destiny. Yes, he’d saved Arthur’s life a time or two—it seemed to need a lot of saving—but that could’ve been anyone. Arthur was a prat, but he didn’t deserve to die for it, no matter what Merlin might mutter under his breath while mucking out the stables. Of course he’d choose to help, even without the encouragement of a ridiculously smug dragon.

None of which explained the _disappointment_. Nor the relief, just when Merlin should have been most satisfied—his honesty vindicated, Arthur’s life saved, _and_ the chance to stay in Camelot as Gaius’ assistant—when Arthur took him back on.

(He supposed, thinking back, it might have had something to do with the moment he’d asked why Arthur would knowingly choose to risk his life fighting Valiant, and Arthur had said, _I have to. It’s my duty_.)

 

“We killed the Afanc, no thanks to you.”

“No?” The Great Dragon sounded far too amused for Merlin’s liking. As usual.

“People’s lives were at risk! My friend—” Merlin stopped, the fear and guilt of nearly losing Gwen still to near to bear.

“But you have defeated the creature,” the dragon said, flicking his tail and causing a minor rockslide. “So you must have found meaning in my words.”

“Yeah, luckily I did! But you know what would have been _more_ helpful? Just saying, _use fire and air, Merlin_. None of this two-sided coin shit. Why can’t you just be direct? Where in my _destiny_ does it say I have to come down here and play charades with you?” Something occurred to him. “I mean, where does my destiny say anything at all? Is it, I don’t know, written down? Is there a prophecy I could read? I’m just saying, some _clarification_ would be helpful. With everything.”

The dragon laughed. He was already poised to take off.

“No young man, no matter how great, can know his destiny. He cannot glimpse his part in the story that is about to unfold. Like everyone, he must live and learn.”

“But that’s bullshit,” Merlin said. “This is the fourth time I’ve been down here, and you go on about my _part in the story_ every time. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Both ways are but—”

“If you say _two sides of the same coin_ , I swear I’ll set you on fire.” Merlin considered. “Or—set you on water? Set you on earth? Are you the anti-Afanc, maybe? Could _you_ have just killed it, and made everything ten times easier?”

“Goodnight, young warlock,” the Great Dragon said, lifting his wings again, amusement still coloring his voice. “I look forward to our next discussion about your destiny.”

“Maybe I’ll just go home!” Merlin shouted over the buffeting gusts of wind from the dragon’s wings. “I’ll just go back to Ealdor, and avoid my destiny altogether! You can’t force me down this path you’ve chosen!”

It was one of the more ridiculous things Merlin had ever said—anyone could force him into anything, as the Great Dragon knew perfectly well—but he was in a defiant mood. And he had no desire to go back to Ealdor, either, but chalk another one up to his so-called _contrary nature_. Cursed as Merlin was, it seemed he couldn’t help but cut off his nose to spite his face.

“I didn’t choose your path, Merlin, I merely see it. And you cannot avoid it. You must not. When the time comes, when the moment is right, you must break the curse upon you.”

It was an order.

 

“Are you sure?” Gaius asked.

Merlin didn’t know why Gaius was always asking that. For a secret magic sympathizer, not to mention someone with (nearly) full knowledge of Merlin’s responsibilities and abilities, he certainly was a skeptic.

“Yes, Gaius, I’m sure,” Merlin repeated, for what felt like the twelfth time but was probably only the eighth. He was pacing the floor while Gaius stared, bleary-eyed. (Merlin thought Gaius should be grateful he resisted waking him until it was something approaching morning, rather than when he’d first returned from visiting the dragon, as he’d wanted. It had taken long enough to move past _I’ve been visiting the Great Dragon_ and _do you have any idea how dangerous that is_ to focus on what the dragon had actually _said_.)

“It was definitely an order. But—why would he think I needed to be _ordered_ to break the curse? That’s like”—Merlin searched for an appropriate metaphor—“like saying _Merlin, I order you to eat this slice of cake_. Hardly seems necessary, does it? Of courses I want the curse broken. Of course I want cake.” His stomach rumbled.

“Perhaps,” Gaius suggested, “he said it so you will know when the time comes. You say you can instinctually feel when something is an order or merely a suggestion, when a command was directed at you or someone else. Perhaps, if Kilgharrah hadn’t ordered you to, the right moment would have passed you by.”

“Maybe.” Merlin frowned. “I don’t understand the rules he plays by. One minute he’s saying nothing can alter destiny, and the next he has his finger on the scale. Claw, I mean. His claw on the—never mind. That’s not important.”

What _was_ important was the most breathtakingly simple, earthshatteringly momentous, ridiculously unnecessary command Merlin had ever received: _break the curse_.

It meant the curse could be broken.

Of course, any curse could be broken. But Merlin had never thought his—condition—was a curse, not really. He’d _called_ it one, obviously, but that was only because of his mother’s _blessing and a curse_ saying. After all, for so long he’d thought it was a limitation all magic users were born with. Even after he’d learned that wasn’t so, he never imagined himself without it except in idle daydreams. His condition—his curse!—felt as much a part of him as his magic. Could he really rid himself of one and keep the other?

“Did you know?”

Gaius shook his head. “I’m afraid I still have more questions than answers, even now. I know the explanation must be out there somewhere, but _why_ you are the way you are, why someone would curse you, who that someone might be—I don’t know.”

“But it might not matter, right? We just have to figure out how to break it.” Merlin scoured his memory for all the tales of curses he’d heard while gathered around a bonfire, or whispered by his mother to get him to sleep at night. It was difficult, as was always the case with fairytales, to know the fiction from the fact.

“What about true love’s kiss?”

Gaius snorted, and Merlin flushed.

“Well, it’s how they usually fix things in the stories,” he said defensively. “Is it…it’s not real, then?”

“Oh, it’s certainly real. But it’s not a cure-all, Merlin. Kissing a frog won’t turn it into a prince.”

“What about the other way ‘round? Arthur might be more bearable as a frog—”

Merlin flushed again, realizing what he’d proposed. _Kissing a prince._ He waved a hand in the air, as though he could get Gaius to forget the last few seconds of conversation with a gesture. (Could there be such a spell? He’d have to look it up, later.)

“Anyway,” Gaius said, with judicious and entirely unwarranted application of The Eyebrow, “true love’s kiss can only break a love-related curse. If you had been enchanted to fall in love with a donkey, say”—Gaius’ total lack of hesitation in producing this example made Merlin certain that it was not an invented one—“a kiss from your true love, whoever he or she may be, might end it. But that is not your situation.”

“So…it’s about opposites, then? False love versus true? Two sides of the same coin? Air and fire, water and earth?”

Gaius, looking slightly taken aback by Merlin’s sudden and not-so-slightly manic animation, nodded. “Yes, that’s a good insight. A curse can only be broken by its fundamental opposite. Two halves making a whole—or breaking one, in this case.”

Merlin resumed his pacing. He felt on edge, breathless, barreling toward the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in his life.

“What’s the opposite of obeying commands?” He thought aloud, too fast and too loud for prudence. “You’d think it would be disobeying them, but I’ve _tried_ that, and I can’t. Even when my life was at risk, even when…”

“A thing may have more than one opposite.”

This time Merlin gave Gaius The Eyebrow, although he had a feeling it wasn’t nearly as impressive. “How?”

“You said false love versus true love, but hate is also the opposite of love. Admiration could be considered the opposite of jealousy, but so could disinterest.”

“Right. Okay. So the opposite of obeying commands…” Merlin stopped pacing. “ _Giving_ them. Maybe—maybe I just need to order someone else around?” He tried to think whether he’d ever issued a command before; it seemed impossible that he hadn’t, but he couldn’t think of any examples.

“I suppose there’s no harm in trying,” Gaius said. He didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic, but Merlin took his words as encouragement.

“Okay,” he said, wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. “Okay, um—Gaius. I order you to sit down.” He tried to make his voice as imperious as possible, which meant he ended up doing a particularly snotty impression of Arthur.

Gaius sat.

“Hang on—why’d you sit?”

Gaius looked surprised. “Did you not want me to? I thought—”

“No, I know, but, I mean, did you feel like you _had_ to? Like you had no choice but to obey me?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you wanted me to, and I want to help you break the curse, so I sat.” Gaius stood again. “Would you like to try again, and this time I’ll try _not_ to sit?”

“No, no,” Merlin said, anxious and impatient on top of the on edge and breathless and sweaty. “Maybe it already worked. It’s not like I know what breaking a curse feels like. Now _you_ order _me_ to do something, and I’ll try to resist.”

“All right. Pass me that bowl.”

Merlin stared at the bowl, directly in front of him on the table. He clenched his fists. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t.

He felt like he were on fire. A knife sliced through his brain. A thousand ants marched up his legs and burrowed beneath his skin.

He handed Gaius the bowl.

He felt fine.

Merlin released his breath and tried not to cry. “It didn’t work,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Merlin.”

Gaius did seem sorry, but not surprised. Merlin supposed he wasn’t, either. He hadn’t _really_ believed, in his heart of hearts, that it would be that easy. Curses were many things, things he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but _easy_ wasn’t one.

“Now pass me that pestle.”

“Stop it,” Merlin said, annoyed despite himself. “We already determined it didn’t work.”

“I know that,” Gaius said, perfectly calm. “I need the pestle to mix Sir Bedivere’s stomach medicine. Hand it over.”

Merlin handed it over.


End file.
